18th October 2006. Huckleberry Finn Hostel, St Louis. Its 9.55am and I am hung over. I arrived here yesterday afternoon in a bit of a state. In the morning, as I finished loading up the bike outside another ghastly motel, German rode off on his own. I heard him start his bike, but that wasn’t strange because he likes to warm it up before we leave. I didn’t see him leave, I had gone back to our room for something, which I’m sure was exactly his intension. Thinking about it now he must have planned to leave like that the day before. That night he’d left most of this luggage on his bike saying he was too tired to unload it. Seemed plausible, we’d just ridden 300 miles through another rainstorm from Chicago towards St Louis, passing the Springfield on our way. So I sat like a lemon by my bike for an hour and a half wondering if anyone could really leave like that. And this person was a friend. It’s not that he left without reason, we had argued again in Chicago. And although when we were in Columbus he’d suggested a compromise of staying a couple more weeks in the US, in Chicago he told me he’d changed his mind. We’d stopped for brunch at the designer everything (except the food) McDonalds in Chicago. It also turned out that he figured those two weeks would have to be made up in Central America, not only that but he said he might decide to fly to Buenos Aries from somewhere in Central or South America, leaving me to do what? Also, he’d decided to give up on us reaching the west coast. He’s been there. I was pretty angry again. Why such a hurry? This should be the most amazing journey of our lives. To be fair to him, although I scarcely see the point, he did say he wants to be in Buenos Aries for Christmas before we left. I told I thought it would take twice as long as that, six rather than three months. However, we agreed we wouldn’t rush, and would have time to stop for a day or two here and there. I figured it would take as long as it takes.
In McDonalds I showed him the map, the distance he wants to cover and the time he wants to do it in. I told him I think its madness. It is over 350 miles a day, without stopping anywhere. And what are the roads going to be like in Mexico and beyond? Pretty bad I reckon. He just said he wants to try. And I couldn’t get what I would call a good reason from him; being back in London for a weekend job he says they say they won’t keep for him; seeing his family, who live in Buenos Aries, for Christmas, and what I think is the big one and which was only hinted at; spending time with his girlfriend. He also came up with a new one about some vague business deal with his dad. I don’t believe him.
I wonder why he is doing this journey. At no point has he been particularly interested in where we are, or amazingly, where we are going. In the mornings he is on his bike, engine running, having not even looked at the map as far as I know. Certainly not discussed with me where we are going, on which roads, or how far. So fixated is he, he has never asked me what I’d like to see on route.
I can’t bear the thought of riding through, or rather past, so many fascinating places all the way to Argentina. It is quite a relief to be able to sit here and write without the nag of having to get on the road, to ride all day in order to stay another night in a neon-lit low rise interstate motel. And it was a pleasure to be able to spend time talking to the locals at the bar on the corner of the street along the road from the Huckleberry Finn Hostel. I’m almost enjoying spending time getting over the headache its given me.
Evidently our goals on this journey were too different. I will have to think of another plan, a different journey. I have some ideas and I’m looking forward to it. I can’t properly understand how he could do such a thing. Surely, after all we’ve done to get his far could we not have agreed to compromise or at least to go our separate ways? The loss of a friend is a terrible thing, but I hope he makes it. Milage 2423